The Littlest Light

#Chapter11-02

#Chapter11-02

Closing my eyes, I took two deep breaths. Surely the nonsense didn't start as soon as he opened his eyes? Surely the Goddess was not so cruel?

"Star? Star? Star?"

Apparently ignoring him didn't work. He'd pushed up onto his knees, both arms lifted, fingers opening and closing, going all jazz hands on me, and the chant grew faster and faster until it became unclear what he was even saying.

"Enough," I warned, silencing him. "I'm not picking you up. You're wet."

"Wurta is wet," Lumen said happily, his arms dropping to his sides as a goofy grin stole away at his face. He still had milk teeth, the gaps that separated them about the width of one of his miniature fingers. But even still, I wasn't buying the sweetie-pie charade.

"Come shower," I said quietly, lacking the patience to humour him. I waved him off the bed, a clear sweep of my hand that made my demand well known. Giggling, a clear, bell-like sound that rang through the air, Lumen rolled and wiggled to the edge of the bed, before falling like a rock to the blankets that lay on the floor. I waited for the ungodly wails, the torturous cry of his to ring through the air, but instead, there were only more giggles.

The shower, it turned out, was a bad idea. His giggly mood dissolved as soon as the thing roared to life, replaced by terrified screeches. They turned to full-blown sobs when I forced him under all the same. I'd ended up bathing it last night, but the bed-wetting, soaking through the jogging bottoms I'd changed him into, called for another. Having him around me was going to be bad enough. I didn't need him stinking of piss on top of that.

Sulking, the boy sniffled and glared all through the dry-and-dress regime, lower lip poked out, turning his head away every time I met his eyes. He made it very clear that he was not very happy with me, but he got over it as soon as we reached the stairs. His fear of them — his eyes going wide and a terrified 'meep' sounding from his lips — eclipsed his annoyance, and he all but climbed up my legs, grabbing at my clothes until I picked him up. The temptation to drop him and watch him bounce was one I just barely reigned in.

"Do not move," I ordered as we made it into the kitchen, placing him on the same chair he'd used last night. His hair, darker now that it was wet, stuck up at odd angles, stray strands clinging to his forehead, and he wore only an oversized shirt of mine. I didn't see the point in giving him the chance to create more laundry. "There might still be glass on the floor."

He'd been a nightmare to get to sleep, even after giving up my bed, and it hadn't been until the early hours of the morning that I'd been able to clean up the mess he'd made.

Lumen didn't answer. After saving him from the stairs, he resumed his sulk with me, arms folded over his chest. He had slid down in his seat, head barely breaching the table, and his mouth had pushed out into such a pout, fish would have been envious. It suited me. The last thing I wanted to do was have a m*********r of brain cells by trying to understand the gobbledy-goop langage he'd created.

Cooking was a vital part of survival. Knowing what plants were edible, or how to stew up dandelions could have made the difference between life or death. Or so my father had claimed; the life of a rogue was an unattractive one, and the luxury of a full belly was never guaranteed. He'd made sure I could adapt to my environment, scalvaging any and anything into a meal. But the lessons had rarely been fun; I didn't consider them to be bonding moments. And perhaps it was some bitter, childish form of rebellion, but I refused to cook. Not when convenience lived in the cupboards-- the world had taken a step forward with the whole 'just add water' recipes. That, and Jonathan was like a housewife. His concern for my diet usually had him bringing over, or prepping meals.

Why have a dog and bark yourself?

The cereals that stocked the cupboards were bland and, in my Beta's words, boring. I didn't like sweet things. Sweets were a no-go, and the additives in all the fake flavoured junk food screwed over my taste buds and had a way of inducing headaches. But something told me that the kid wouldn't have been all that enthusiastic about eating plain old cornflakes, and I ended up spinkling a spoon of sugar over the top.

"Do you think you can feed yourself without making a mess again?" I asked as I offered him a spoon. He nodded, his sour mood deteriorating beneath the happy grin that stole away at his grumpiness. A dimple appeared in his lower right cheek. It wasn't reassuring. Even as the words left my mouth, I couldn't see a scenario where this ended well.

Granting him the benefit of the doubt only reinforced the reason I didn't trust people. He ended up making a mess. The spoon became a forgotten hindrance, and his hands made short work of introducing themselves to the bowl.

With a dull, aching pain playing pinball inside my head, and a depleting sense of will power the only thing keeping my eyes open, chastising him became too much work. Sitting opposite him, I watched numbly, fighting against the drooping of my eyes. He splashed. Squealed. Laughed. Said a cluster of things that made no darn sense. I watched. Fought the fatigue. Watched.

"Another sleepless night, Sterling?"

The voice, warm and clear, dominating the room, had my spine snapping into action. Head whipping around so fast that the world seemed to spin, a tide of nausea ripe riding through my body, it took a few seconds to focus on the newly arrived figure. Took a few more seconds to wonder how the hell he'd made it through my kitchen and to the coffee machine without me noticing.

"Jonathan," I mumbled, realising that it wasn't just his presence that was different. The entire scene had changed. Lumen no longer sat in front of me. Ignoring my orders, the little nit had moved. He was sat, legs spread, on the floor. The upturned bowl was in front of him, and he was happily splashing in the milk, singing something that sounded suspiciously like 'Baaa-baaa-baaa-oink' to himself. Carrier bags, half a dozen of the things, surrounded Jonathan's feet, and as I blinked hard, scowling as another stream of tiredness tried to weigh me down, I met his eyes.

Far from ugly, the stern faced guise that anchored his face into a mask of seriousness was often his only deterrent. The always-at-the-ready smile was often overlooked, and some considered him intimidating. But even still, it wasn't enough to understand why he was still without a lover. If not for his good-looks alone, the status of Beta would have pushed his status up to 'f**k-worthy'.